It was raining the night they brought Juliana to the Theosbane estate, situated in the Golden City of Luxara.
The first thing she noticed about their mansion was how cold it was.
Not just the marble floors or the high walls made of actual gold — but the very air itself.
It was the kind of cold that crawled beneath your skin, settled deep into your bones, and made you feel like you would never be warm again.
She was around eight years old when they dragged her through those luxurious halls — barefoot, wrists bound in iron shackles, and her dress tattered from days spent in a cell.
The scent of damp stone and candle wax filled the grand corridors, but beneath it, she still smelled the smoke. Her home. Her family. Burned.
That scent clung to her skin and hair, no matter how many times the servants scrubbed her raw.
She had expected death when they dragged her before Arthur Kaizer Theosbane — the man who personally massacred her father.
